


Endless Maze of the Mind

by HamHamHeaven



Series: Greyscale [8]
Category: Jrock, the GazettE
Genre: Colorblind Soulmate AU, Gen, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Swearing, general weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamHamHeaven/pseuds/HamHamHeaven
Summary: His heart is racing, pounding, beating a frantic cadence in his narrow chest as he races away from…?  Toward…?Why am I running?  Where the hell am I?





	Endless Maze of the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> For the DW vkyaoi June 2017 challenge - a fic inspired by the artist, band member(s), PV, and/or photo shoot that first drew us into the realm of visual kei. My first exposure to the genre was this:  
>   
> A quick YouTube search led me to [The Invisible Wall](https://youtu.be/cZpmj1assiQ), and my life has never been the same since.
> 
> Technically, this story is part of the Greyscale/Colours universe, but it can absolutely be read as a stand-alone.  
> 

He dashes down the corridors.  Left, right, left, left; right, left, left, right.  Weaving his way between towering stalks of bamboo mysteriously sprung up amid the path.

  


The air around him is still, stale.  The mouldering atmosphere of a long- abandoned crypt.  Yet all around him, the leaves shiver and twist as if caught in a whirlwind.  Metallic.  Their razor thin edges slice his sleeves to ribbons, kissing his flesh with their sharp bite.

  


His heart is racing, pounding, beating a frantic cadence in his narrow chest as he races away from…?  Toward…?

  


_Why am I running?_

  


Hair sticks to his sweat- drenched forehead.  Lungs claw at his ribs, burning with the need for oxygen _._ His muscles ache as though he’s been running for hours.  Maybe he has.  There’s no way of knowing. 

  


Time does not exist here.

  


No matter which direction he turns, which passage he takes, he can’t seem to make any progress _forward_.  Can’t seem to _get_ … wherever it is he’s meant to go.  He glances over his shoulder in terrified confusion, even as his feet continue to propel him onward.

  


_Didn’t I pass that corner already?  Where the hell am I?_

  


He stumbles.  Trips.  Lands face- first against a wall of invisible glass.  Pain blossoms behind his eyes in a burst of colour the likes of which he’s never seen.

  


Slowly, he raises his head.  Tries to look up.  To find his bearings.  To discover what obstructs his route.  Above, hangs an inky black sky, velvety soft.  Or is it?  Maybe the ceiling is just so far he’s unable to see it. 

  


_Maybe I’ve gone blind._

  


Something trickles down the wall over his hands, obscuring them within the gloom before him.  He can’t see them, but he can still feel they’re there.  He rubs his fingers together to test the wetness.  Thicker than water; thinner than acrylic paint.

  


Smells like… blood? 

  


_Am I bleeding?_

  


He licks the tip of his index finger.  Salty.  Like tears. 

  


Sorrowful moaning, keening, fills the halls of the endless maze.  Resonating off the walls until they begin to vibrate.  Someone’s in pain.  Crying!

  


_Is it me?_

  


He presses a hand over his mouth.  The noise continues.  He claps his hands over his ears to block the miserable sound, but it seeps in through his bones.  Thrumming.  Rattling.  Echoing around in his skull until he’s sure it’s going to shatter.

  


_Make it stop!_

  


“You’re the only one who can make it stop,” a dark voice purrs seductively in his ear.

  


_How?_

  


“Don’t you remember?”

  


_No, I don’t remember anything._

  


“Don’t you know where you are?”

  


_Where am I?_

  


“Look!”

  


The sheets of darkness surrounding him are peeled away, leaving him exposed before a wide pane of glass.  A bare light bulb swings back and forth, back and forth overhead.  Like the climax of an old Hollywood noir film.  Shadows lengthen and shorten with each pass of the light over him.  Too bright, too dark, too bright.

  


He stares in horrified fascination at the dim reflection before him.  Heavy- lidded, kohl-lined eyes gaze back at him, unblinking.  Unseeing.  Plush lips varnished to a glossy shine are frozen open mid- word.  Mid- scream.  With nothing but the faintest hint of breath ghosting between them.

  


He’s been… posed _._   Arranged.  Placed on a black stool, surrounded by shiny metal stalks of bamboo.  From his ears, throat, wrists hang ornately carved pieces of jewellery.  And there’s a phrase written across his naked chest in paint.

  


_In blood?_

  


The letters are backwards, but instinctively he knows what they say.

  


_Vital Heresy_.

  


A pair of disembodied hands appear around his waist, repositioning one of the many bracelets.  Forcibly tilting his wrist to improve the angle.  He tries to fight it.  To keep his arm exactly where it is.  But his efforts are useless.  All of his strength is gone.

  


“I warned you that you couldn’t escape me, Uruha.”

  


His skin feels silky smooth under the stranger’s touch.  Pliant, like a living body, yet cold as a corpse.

  


_Let me go!_

  


Fingers card through the silk of his hair, redistributing each strand with expert precision.

  


“My puppet.  My toy to do with as I please.” 

  


A toy.  Yes, that’s all he is. A marionette – slave to the one who pulls the strings.

  


A mannequin!

  


The hand trails up his exposed breastbone, wrapping slowly around his throat.  Tightening. 

  


“Just a toy.  So why do you still breathe?”

 

Ruki comes awake with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed.

Home.

He’s at home.  In bed.  Surrounded by the familiar, the mundane: headlight shadows on the closet door, rhythmic ticks of the clock in the main room.  Koron’s toenails on the floor as he sneaks into the kitchen to see if there’s any food left in his bowl from dinner.

Ruki grabs up his mobile, squinting in pain at the brightness as he activates the screen to check the time.

03:57

What a bizarre dream!  The world’s worst acid trip, and he didn’t even take anything before lying down.  All of those weird, half- formed concepts amalgamated together. 

And that face staring back at him!

Ruki might not recognize the name the unidentified stranger had used, but he would know that face anywhere.

Kouyou – the photography genius that has brought so many of his jewellery designs to life.  

Why of all the people in his life did he have to dream about _Kouyou_!  And not simply dreaming _about_ him, but dreaming as if he _were_ him.  As if Ruki’s subconscious has somehow figured out how to slither out of his own mind and right into someone else’s.

  


Now that’s an interesting idea.  Might make a good addition to his latest sculpture collection – a brain that’s escaped one person’s body and is trying to force its way into another.

  


Ruki shakes off the thought.  Early morning inspiration is all well and good, but until he has completely calmed down, it’s better to leave it alone.  For the time being, he needs a cigarette and a sleeping pill.

Kouyou.

_Bet he never has disturbing dreams about being strangled.  Not even in a kinky way, curse him._

With a growl of frustration, Ruki snatches up his mobile again and shoots off an angry text.

  


**Stay the fuck out of my dreams, asshole!**

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Notes** : **1)** The initial inspiration for this story was an old Twilight Zone episode, The After Hours, in which a young woman discovers that she's a mannequin who has been out living among "real people" for a month. As you can see, this went incredibly sideways from that original idea.  
>  **2)** Chibi-sama swears a lot. And when I politely suggested he tone it down, he flipped me off. *sigh*


End file.
